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190 TO THE LIGHTHOUSEcaught a word here and there, they were consciousall the time of their father—how he leant forward,how he brought his voice into tune with Macalister’svoice; how, puffing at his pipe, and looking thereand there where Macalister pointed, he relished thethought of the storm and the dark night and thefishermen striving there. He liked that men shouldlabour and sweat on the windy beach at night, pittingmuscle and brain against the waves and the wind; heliked men to work like that, and women to keephouse, and sit beside sleeping children indoors, whilemen were drowned, out there in a storm. So Jamescould tell, so Cam could tell (they looked at him, theylooked at each other), from his toss and his vigilanceand the ring in his voice, and the little tinge ofScottish accent which came into his voice, makinghim seem like a peasant himself, as he questionedMacalister about the ten ships that had beendriven into the bay in a storm. Three had sunk.

He looked proudly where Macalister pointed; andCam thought, feeling proud of him without knowingquite why, had he been there he would have launchedthe lifeboat, he would have reached the wreck, Camthought. He was so brave, he was so adventurous,Cam thought. But she remembered. There wasthe compact; to resist tyranny to the death. Theirgrievance weighed them down. They had beenforced; they had been bidden. He had borne themdown once more with his gloom and his authority,making them do his bidding, on this fine morning,come, because he wished it, carrying these parcels,to the Lighthouse; take part in those rites hewent through for his own pleasure in memory